


Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts

by paradoxicalconverse



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Angst, F/F, Fluff, Hollstein - Freeform, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-20
Updated: 2015-05-20
Packaged: 2018-03-31 09:45:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3973414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradoxicalconverse/pseuds/paradoxicalconverse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fic where Laura gets drunk and Carmilla still remains broody and gay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drunk Words, Sober Thoughts

**Author's Note:**

> This was freeform, and I had no plans, so what you're reading had no plan--I sort of just wrote and then went with it. Let me know how it was?  
> feel free to send me requests/recommendations/critiques in the comments or at please-say-nine.tumblr.com

Carmilla, unsurprisingly, can hold her liquor a hell of a lot better than you can. You hadn’t known it when you’d pulled the bottle of vodka from your book bag after officially failing your Calculus midterm, but apparently, “Kidneys need to actually be functioning in order to get drunk, cupcake.” But you’d only learned that after you’d downed two shots straight up and the floor was beginning to tilt precariously underneath you while she still, lo and behold, looked distant and unaffected.

Still, she takes the bottle from your hands and upends half of it, scrunching her face against the putrid taste before wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “It’s gross,” you say after a minute of watching her. You could stare at that face for forever. You decide to look at it for a little longer.

“It is,” she agrees, taking another swig and making another face as the hard liquor seeps into her mouth and down her throat.

“So why drink it? It doesn’t do anything for you.” You’d never actually been drunk before, and you’d always thought that you would’ve been the giggly drunk. Turns out, you’re just more curious, with the excitement you usually hold a bit dialed down. Maybe it’s bit harder to string thoughts together, if anything.

“I drink it for the taste, cupcake,” she murmurs, her hand beginning to rub slow, burning circles into your back as you fit your head into the crevice where her neck meets her shoulder, leaning up against her.

“It tastes like paint,” you say. “Why would you drink that for the taste?”

“Because it tastes like memories,” she replies, and the sadness in her voice can even ring clear in your foggy, vodka-fried brain. She must have been carried away, you think, because she drank nearly the entire bottle and hardly left any for you.

“I did that for a reason, cutie,” and for a moment you’re shocked, she’s a vampire _and_ she can read minds? But then she starts laughing and says, “I can read minds when the thoughts are out loud.”

Your lips felt numb from the alcohol, you hadn’t realized that you had been speaking out loud. A warm feeling floods your entire body as you press yourself into her further.

“Why? I bought it.”

“Because you would’ve drunken the whole thing if I hadn’t, Sundance.”

“So?”

“So,” she says, laughing again, and it’s the most beautiful sound you think you’ve ever heard. You want to bottle it up and keep it forever. “You’re tiny. This much alcohol would kill you. It won’t affect me. I’m keeping you safe.”

“Because I’m yours?” you ask without thinking. You’d like to think of yourself as hers. You’d like to think of her as yours, too. You’re not sure if this has crossed a boundary or not, but she answers anyways.

“Yes,” she replies quietly, her body relaxing against yours. “Because you’re mine.”

Something new entirely begins to fill you—like being drunk, but being drunk on happiness. _Maybe it’s a good thing she has the bottle_ , you think, because the vodka must really be starting to mess with your head. You want to take the bottle from her, to drain the rest, because really, how much worse can a few more gulps be, but then her hand begins to press into your back again, warm and comfortable and so damn _safe_ , tearing your thoughts away from the present moment and, in sudden clarity, you realize that it’s not the alcohol that is doing these things to you.

It’s her.

You suppose you’ve always known that. She’s been the only coherent thought in your mind since the vodka took residence in your head. Hell, even before that. She always has. Her and that stupid smile that looks like it’s trying to compete against the sun and those stupid leather pants that make her butt admittedly look fantastic and her stupid, stupid eyes that you wish you could drown in forever. You’d tie a weight to your chest and sink to the bottom of the ocean if it meant that she would look at you one last time with those eyes.

You think that you love her—scratch that, you _know_ that you love her. You love that stupid smirk and those stupid lips and those stupid, stupid—

“Cupcake? You’re drunk.”

“I know, Carm. I’ve been drunk since early.”

“You’re drunk talking, cupcake.” She twists her neck to look down at you.

“But my words are still there.” You’re not entirely sure what that means—it made a lot more sense when it was still inside your head. But you think she gets it, because that stupidly gorgeous smile spills over her lips and she finishes off the vodka. Her face doesn’t scrunch up at the flavor, though. Instead, she looks content. You’re not sure with what, though.

“Can I tell you something?” she asks after a moment, and your heart begins to pound furiously in your chest.

“Mmm,” you murmur into her collarbone, because that’s all you think you can manage. When did you get so tired?

“You know that face I make when I drink vodka? The one you thought was from the taste of the alcohol?” Her words are soft, slow, as if she’s talking to a child. You suppose that compared to her, you are a child.

“It’s beautiful,” you say, then immediately clasp a hand over your mouth and giggle. You hadn’t meant to tell her _that_!

“It’s not from the alcohol. It’s from the memories. They taste terrible. They _tasted_ terrible.” Her tongue swirls around a forgotten drop on the rim of the lid, and electricity runs down your spine at the sight. “But now, they don’t taste so bad anymore. Not after tonight.”

“What do they taste like?” You’re so tired that you’re hardly keeping up with what she’s saying. But it sounds worth listening to—so you’re trying your best.  
She murmurs something, but you’re too gone to hear it, to comprehend it, and you slowly drift off to the sound of her rhythmic voice.

 

You’re weren’t so drunk that you have no memory of what happened last night, but there are definitely a few gaps. You can’t remember words exchanged, only that communication had occurred. She had drunken all of your vodka. That’s about all you remember. The memories will return if you get a trigger, though.

The shades are drawn when you wake, room dark and a glass of Gatorade on the bedside table behind you. Underneath the orange liquid is a note, folded. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust to the calligraphy when you unwrap it, but your drunken words and stupor snap back to you when you read it. It’s Carmilla’s handwriting; _I think I love her, too. No, scratch that, I_ know _I love her. Because she’s mine. Because I’m hers. I love her and her stupid smile that makes it look like the sunrise is losing every morning. I love her stupid eyes that I’d jump into the ocean with a weight tied to my chest to look at one more time. I love her drunk words that are her sober thoughts. God, I love her._

_And god, Laura, you’ll never know how much that is. But I’ll spend every moment with you trying to let you know._

**Author's Note:**

> srsly, I have no idea how this was. Let me know?


End file.
